by S. L. Stoner
She laughed but her voice was breathless as she said, “I didn’t know if I could hit him soon enough or hard enough to stop him. I kept looking around the corner, screwing up my courage. When he cocked the gun . . .” her voice trailed off and she glanced down at the stick she’d dropped. She swayed but by then he’d reached for her. Wrapping his arms around her shaking body, he squeezed tight, knocking the hat off her head. Her loose hair fell around her shoulders.
“Thank you, Lucinda,” he said into that silken hair. “You saved my life. But when I get my hands on Siringo, he’s going to get a lesson for involving you in this. You could have been shot.”
She stiffened in his arms and drew back. “He didn’t know I was trailing you,” she said, irritation making her voice tart. “No way I was going to tell him. He’s as pig-headed as you are!”
Before Sage could answer, a groan sounded down near his boot. Lucinda picked up the hat and stuffed her hair back into its crown.
“I’ll go get Charlie,” she whispered before disappearing around the corner.
Sage stepped back from his would-be killer even as a hot flare of jealousy swept through him.“That damn‘Charlie’ again,” he muttered bitterly, as his boot gently toed the moaning Twill.
TWENTY SEVEN
Twill was sitting on the ground, fingers gingerly exploring his head, when the rangy shape of Charlie Siringo slipped around the building’s corner.
“I didn’t know what she planned to do,” Siringo said by way of greeting. “Still, she’s a plucky filly, that one. Lucky for you.”
Sage smiled at the “plucky filly” then remembered she was Siringo’s plucky filly. “Yup, I’m darn lucky,” was all he said.
“I should have known you’re teamed up with another scoundrel,” Twill mumbled from where he sat at their feet.
Siringo and Sage looked at each other. “Wahl,” drawled the cowboy. “Now that we trapped us a crazed coyote, what are we going to do with him?”
Twill snorted like an angry horse before offering an answer. “Kill me of course. Just like you killed Timothy and Asa. ‘All the perfumes in Arabia will not sweeten your little hands’.”
“Lady Macbeth,” Sage answered automatically. Where the hell had Twill come up with such ideas?
“I didn’t kill either one of them,” he told the Irishman. “Oh yea. And, me Mam raised me to always make the same mistake twice,” was Twill’s bitter response.
“Look, Twill. I wasn’t anywhere near in Prineville when Timothy O’Dea was murdered. That was the morning I rode the train out to Shaniko from Portland.”
“Stop with the lies. Witnesses saw you, man,” Twill insisted before grabbing his head with both hands. “Oh, my head. What in Mary Joseph’s name did that woman crack me noggin with?” Siringo and Sage exchanged a look of consternation, with Sage thinking, “Darn, he must have heard Lucinda’s voice. Twill now knows a woman is involved.” What Sage said, however, was, “What ‘witnesses’?” Those so-called witnesses just might be the killers.
“Hah. There’s another of your lies—bald as Caesar’s pate. People saw you out in the Ochocos the day before Timothy died. You were working with a bunch of cowboys, running a dead line. Just so those bleeding sheepshooters will have another excuse to murder more shepherds. You can’t deny your partner here is on the cowboy’s side, he planted a facer on you the other day. Fine show of theater that was. Had me fooled for a bit,” he said bitterly.
“What witnesses?” Sage repeated.
“Of yes, as if I am going to give you and your partner here the names of more people to murder,” Twill said. “Just get it over with. It’ll be a relief from this aching noggin,” he mumbled from beneath the two hands still holding his head.
Just then, the rear door of the Rimrock swung open, letting the saloon’s hubbub waft out into the silent night. A man stepped out, his fingers already fumbling with his trouser buttons. He didn’t try to reach the privy. Instead, he turned his back and stared north toward a patch of dry brush that stood between the saloon and its nearest neighbor. They heard the patter of liquid hitting the hard earth. Seconds later the man re-entered the saloon.
Siringo cleared his throat. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to have a little talk with our friend.” He gestured at the Irishman. “Wait here,” Sage said, shoving Twill’s gun into his own waistband. He ran lightly up the outside stairs and entered the attic. The room was empty. Flipping aside the blanket doors over the cubicle openings, he confirmed that no one was inside.
Back out on the stair landing, Sage whispered down to Siringo, “Bring him on up. No one’s up here.” In response, he heard Siringo’s quiet murmur and the scuffle of boots in the dirt. Siringo and Twill mounted the stairs, the Irishman in front. Siringo strong-armed him into a moonlit patch, slung a ladder-back chair into position and none too gently pushed the shepherd down onto its seat. Then he lit a kerosene lantern and turned the flame high.
“Look here, Mr. McGinnis, me and Mr. Miner are working with the law, not against it,” Siringo said with authority.
Sage smirked. Right, as if Twill was going to believe him.
“I’m supposed to believe those words coming from between your lips?” Twill responded. “I’ve heard enough around town to know you’re a cowpoke who’s been around the Ochocos for months. Now, it turns out you’re Miner’s partner.” He spoke Sage’s alias with contempt.
“That’s just an act,” Siringo said.
Sage smirked again.
“Obviously, just like everything else the two of you have been up to,” Twill responded.
“Look here. I’m a Dickensen agent and Miner here,” Siringo gestured to Sage, “He’s helping me. We’re trying to stop the range war before it starts.”
“I’m supposed to believe that malarkey?” Twill’s voice was incredulous. “You’re an even bigger liar than he is, by God.” The Irishman clamped his lips shut and crossed his arms over his chest.
Siringo fished around inside his trousers. He pulled out a white card and shoved it toward the Irishman. “Here, read this. It’s my Dickensen identification.”
Sage smirked yet again. Twill didn’t take the card. Why would he, if he couldn’t read?
Sage stepped closer to the two men. This wasn’t getting them anywhere, Twill wasn’t going to tell them anything. He was stubborn as a Klondike mule eyeing a swinging bridge.
“Okay, Twill. I know you’re not going to tell us the names of your witnesses. So, I’m going to tell you a thing or two. Yesterday was the first time in my life that I was ever in the Ochoco Mountains. Siringo and I had a meet up out there. Siringo’s the one who found the shepherd’s body—not me. He also found the old shepherd’s killer.”
“Who?” Twill demanded. For the first time, contempt was absent from his voice.
“Kid by the name of Tom Miglet,” Siringo answered. “Problem is, he didn’t kill your friend Timothy or Asa Rayburn. He was nowhere near when they were killed. And, I can’t find any evidence that a cowboy killed either one of them.”
“Who you working for, the cattlemen?” Twill snapped, suspicion thick in his voice.
“Nope. I work for Governor Chamberlain.” Siringo’s response was matter-of-fact.”
Twill snorted in disbelief. “The governor? Sure you don’t want to aim higher? Like maybe the President? Or, how about the man in the damned moon?”
Siringo ignored the ridicule and kept talking, “Governor Chamberlain believes we’re about to have a range war in Central Oregon. He sent me out here to try and stop it. He’s ordered me to find out who is instigating the conflict and, also, what legitimate concerns might be beneath it all.”
“What’s your name anyway?” Twill asked.
“People hereabouts know me as Tony Lloyd. My real name is Charles Siringo,” came the forthright answer.
“I’ve heard that name—Tony Lloyd.” Suspicion was back in the flat delivery of Twill’s statement. “You’ve been out with the cowpokes running dead lines
all through the mountains.”
Siringo nodded. “That’s right, I’ve been riding with every cowboy outfit I can find. My job was to infiltrate the cattle outfits. Miner here was supposed to do the same on the sheep side.”
“Right, boyo. And me, I swam here from yon Emerald Isle carrying a wee four-leaf clover tenderly between my teeth.”
Siringo sighed and stepped back, raising his hands in the air. “I give up. Maybe you can have better luck,” he said to Sage.
Sage shook his head. “He’s got ‘witnesses,’ he’s not going to believe me either. Can’t say I blame him. I know the witnesses lying are but why?”
Looking at Twill’s face, Sage saw that their tussle had cleared the alcohol from the Irishman’s mind. For the first time, he looked to be considering what they had said.
Then Siringo misstepped. “Maybe we should just give him a few thumps to jar those names loose.”
Anger filled Twill’s face confirming the damage was done. “You can thump me all the way to hell and back. I’ll not be giving names to two murdering liars,” Twill shouted.
“Oh, shut your damn pie-hole,” Siringo commanded and stepped forward. Sage also stepped forward but before he could say anything, a scuffling sounded right outside the door, followed by boots hurriedly clomping down the outside stairs.
Seconds later there was shouting below followed by a flurry of activity.
Siringo and Sage exchanged looks. “Oh-oh,” was Siringo’s only comment before running feet charged up the stairs. The door was flung open so hard it bounced off the wall. A group of eight or more men crowded into the attic. None of them had guns but likely all carried knives and one, for sure, carried Lucinda’s stout stick.
“Are you all right, Twill?” called one of the men.
“Right as rain on a May day,” returned Twill as he glanced at his captors, stood up and walked toward the men. “I thank you kindly for coming to my undeserving aid with such alacrity. As the blessed bard says, ‘I am wealthy in my friends’.”
“Pericles, Prince of Tyre, Timon,” Sage identified the quote’s source in a quiet voice.
Twill heard him because he turned and met Sage’s steady gaze before giving the slightest of nods and turning away.
Siringo also looked at Sage saying, “Mister Miner, quoting poetry in the midst of a stampede seems right crazy, if you’ll pardon the criticism.”
That stirred a grumble from the men at the door who pressed forward.
Sage glanced at the window opening behind them. It offered their only possible escape. He wondered whether he’d break just one or, both of his legs, when they hit the hard ground outside.
The slither of a gun leaving its leather holster broke the momentary silence. A glance told him Siringo’s gun was out but aimed at the floor.
“First hombre that takes a step forward is going to get a bullet in his leg,” the cowboy drawled.
There was a rustle behind the packed men and the crowd parted. The saloonkeeper stepped forward, the twin holes of his double-barreled shotgun aimed at Siringo’s middle.
“I expect,” the saloon keeper drawled back, imitating Siringo, “Mister, you might want to drop that weapon of yours on the floorboards and then give it a nudge in our direction with the toe of your pointy little cowboy boot. If you don’t, I’m afraid ‘ole Bessie here will make a mess of my nice clean attic.”
Sage tried to ignore the blood rushing into his ears. He looked at Siringo, saw calculation narrow the man’s eyes and his lips tighten. A dead line.
Sage considered stepping back, away from Siringo. Shotguns had a wide shot pattern. At this close range, if the saloonkeeper pulled the triggers, buckshot would hit them both.
Sage stepped in front of the Dickensen man. Just one thought had seized hold—inevitable as the Klondike’s winter snow, “She loves him. I like him. So I have to protect him.”
A growl rolled across the small open space between them and the angry men standing behind the saloonkeeper.
“Are these the fellers who murdered Timothy O’Dea?” asked a quiet voice from in their midst.
“What about Asa Rayburn? They kill him too?” came another voice.
The growl grew louder, ominous as the rumble of an approaching thunder storm. Every face stared at them, the fury building. The saloonkeeper’s finger tightened on the shotgun’s twin triggers as its barrels lifted and steadied.
TWENTY EIGHT
A boot scuffed across the floorboards and Twill stepped in front of the shotgun. He faced the shepherds, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Now, let’s not be acting hasty,” he cautioned. “I’m starting to think this to-do might be a big misunderstanding.”
He looked over his shoulder at Siringo. “How about you holster that weapon, mister?” he suggested.
Siringo hesitated, then nodded and the pistol slid back into leather.
The saloonkeeper’s shotgun barrels dropped so that the twin holes pointed down. Relief relaxed the deep lines on his weathered face.
Twill began explaining in his soft brogue. “You see, I thought these two had killed Tim and Asa. We were arguing about it when you all came to my rescue.”
“I heard that cowboy threaten you,” came a voice from the back of the group.
Twill nodded. “For certain you did. But, he was just trying to scare me into telling why I thought they were killers. Except for right at the start, they haven’t laid a finger on me.” He raised a hand to gingerly touch the sore spot where Lucinda’s stick had hit his head. “And, I am thinking a thump on the head is a cheap price to pay for stopping me from doing something I would have regretted the rest of my life.”
Twill took a deep breath and then let it out before saying, “Fellows, I am more than grateful that you came to my aid. I will not forget it. You are true friends.” He turned to stare intently into Sage’s face. “And, it just may be that I misjudged my other friend here.”
Sage said nothing, just stared back, glad that Twill had decided to take a chance on believing him but wondering what had brought about the change.
“You fellows go on back downstairs. The drinks are on me,” Twill told the group of men.
“You real sure Twill, that you’ll be all right?” asked one of the men even as the group began shuffling toward the door.
“Safe as a wee lamb in the middle of the flock on a bright sunny day,” Twill responded.
The attic emptied, followed by the sound of descending boots and the clap of the saloon’s back door closing. Twill turned to face them.
“What made you decide to believe us?” Sage had to ask.
The Irishman gave him a lopsided grin. “Why, it was you stepping toward your friend there, rather than away. That isn’t a scoundrel’s choice. Second,” here he paused and looked embarrassed.“You kept my secret. Your friend doesn’t know that I can’t read. If he did, he wouldn’t have shown me that card.” Then the grin became full and easy, “Besides, I can’t help myself. I flat out like you. It sore pained my heart to think you false.”
Sage returned the Irishman’s grin. “I like you too,” he said. “Afore the two of you decide to take up hugging and kissing, I suggest we figure out how to catch us a killer,” Siringo drawled, though the relief was evident in his voice.
Siringo decided it wasn’t safe to continue their discussion in the Rimrock’s attic. After they followed him down the stairs, he led them to the power plant. It turned midnight as they reached the plant’s wood lot because one of its operating generators suddenly fell silent. Like many electric plants, Prineville’s ran at full capacity only until midnight. That’s when the town’s homes went dark. Only saloons and hotels continued to draw electricity but that draw required just a single generator.
They waited, concealed by high cords of slab wood, for the silenced generator’s fire stoker to exit the plant for home. Then three men moved to the banks of Ochoco Creek. Once there, they sat on low stacks of slab wood rounds.
“Mr. McGinnis, I
appreciate your stepping forward to prevent a ruckus back there at the Rimrock,” Siringo began, removing his hat to continue earnestly, “We really are in Prineville to prevent the sheepmen from being harmed. I know that the cattlemen have done some sheep shooting and maybe tied up a shepherd or two. But, except for Miglet killing that old shepherd, I don’t think they’ve have killed anyone, yet.”
Sage jumped in. “Twill, we think the person who killed Timothy O’Dea also killed Asa Rayburn. A man was seen on the military road the night O’Dea was murdered. But it was dark and he was seen from a distance. Still, the witnesses all say he was a town man, not a cowboy. That’s what is so strange. A town man killing Rayburn might make some sense. But why would a town man ride all the way out to Gray’s Prairie to kill O’Dea and his dog?”
Siringo cleared his throat before saying, “And there’s the burning of the Kepler brothers’ barn. How can that be related? I’m thinking it’s related because no cowboy is taking credit for the fire. Believe me, I’ve tipped more than a few beers with them and spent many hours around the campfire when there’s nothing to do but tell stories. If any of them burned down the barn, he would have bragged. At least, there’d be gossip. There isn’t. Instead, all they do is speculate on who might have done it.”
“And, don’t forget Rayburn was up to mischief at the Fromm’s homestead,” Sage added.
Twill’s brow knitted in concentration. “Rayburn, Timothy, Kepler brothers’ barn, Fromm’s homestead,” he muttered almost to himself. He looked at them, puzzlement creasing his face.
“Sheep, darn it. That’s what they all have in common. That’s why it has to be the cattlemen.”
Sage was shaking his head. “Or someone wants us to think that. Twill, we have to trust that Charlie has done a thorough investigation where the cowboys are concerned. That means we’ve got to look beyond the obvious. But Twill, why do you think the Fromms have something to do with sheep? I thought they were homesteaders with just a cow and a chicken or two.”